“I don’t know,” said he. “But he’d want a lot of money, I’m sure.”
“But mightn’t he have a curate, or something?”
“Goose,” laughed Thyrsis, “there are no Presbyterian curates!”
“Well, you know what I mean,” she said—“an assistant, or an apprentice, or something.”
“I don’t know,” said he. “Let’s go and ask.”
So, with much trepidation, they rang the bell of the parsonage on the side-street. But the white-capped maid who answered told them that the pastor was not in, and that there were no curates or apprentices about.
They went on.
“How much do you suppose they charge, anyway?” asked Thyrsis.
“I don’t know—I think you give what you can spare. How much money have you?”
“I’ve got eight dollars to my name.”